


Objectively

by skszp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Post-Hogwarts, general moping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-25 19:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4972636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skszp/pseuds/skszp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s summer and Rose Weasley has spent the last ten years jumping between dead-end jobs. She spends her holidays at her parents house, as always, but time has gone by too quickly and life feels like a pair of shoes that won’t fit despite being the right size. She runs into Scorpius Malfoy for the first time since graduating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to Jaymay while writing this so prepare for, as Spotify puts it "wistful vocals and literate, folksy narratives".

It’s ten years on the day since Rose Weasley graduated from Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry, top of her class in everything but herbology. It’s a Tuesday and bless the set school year, her little brother is graduating as we speak. She should be on Kings Cross waiting for him with the rest of her family. Or at home. Or at least planning on coming and eating dinner with them and the Potters, as per tradition.

Rose Weasley hates remembering her school days. They come in all too vivid fragments for her liking. But it has been five years – anxiety over studies, pissing of Malfoy, winning the house cup, saving all goals against Slytherin, getting pissed off by Malfoy, more studying, less studying making out in broom closets - no, not with Malfoy.

She should have brought a bottle of fire whiskey. She is walking along a crooked road. Big enough to drive on, but no cars in sight. This is a mostly muggle occupied area, but it’s late, and if the beach is occupied it will be by teenagers. Rose scowls at the thought as she processes past the little hut-like changing rooms (she does not go in, she will not be swimming), past the birches and a sign with forbiddens. No smoking, motorbikes, horses, cars, think of the children, for merlin’s sake. Nothing regarding alcohol though. She really should have brought that fire whiskey.

She judges the beach empty and plans to draw a sigh of relief. Time to reminisce over lost time and absent spirits. She doesn’t get far until she realizes she has misjudged the situation. She stops walking and quickly thanks whoever’s listening for the heads up. Furthest out on the, actually quite small jetty sits a hunched over figure, perhaps reading something, Rose can’t see from here. She wants to roll her eyes at herself for thinking it looks like him, like Malfoy that is. She rolls her eyes too much for being 28. Her brain is playing tricks on her, for a moments her body tenses up like it has done so many times before. Prepare for attack. When no insult comes her way she feels her cheeks go warm and realizes what she’s doing. She’s expecting some poor guy to harass her because that is what Malfoy, 16, would have done. She has no idea what he is doing now. They were in the same year. Different houses. Some ministry work, probably. Maybe America. She feels ever gloomier than before and decides to stop figuring out a great life for Scorpius Malfoy.

The blond on the jetty shifts in a totally un-Malfoy-like manner and Rose sits down on an obscenely yellow bench. She doesn’t mind one other person trying to get on with their evening, and they will most probably leave before she does anyway. She picks up her sketch book and figures that since the person is there, and she would like to be alone, she has the right to sketch him. Not only him of course, the rest of the scene as well. Jetty and still water and pale light and a kind of sandstone-y beach. It’s painfully lame, but Rose can’t bring herself to mind. It looks pretty, and it is not as if she can sell it without the objects consent. Something she’s not planning on getting. She wishes someone would buy her drawings already. Or at least show them at something other than dank bars. Really, it’s her own fault. She should have not chosen a shitty line of muggle work. Still, she still wants it. Rose remembers their last conversation. The first time they hadn’t fought loudly in a while. It’s the last day of Hogwarts, their last train ride to Kings Cross, and Malfoy corners her in the half-busy corridor. Her cousins aren’t around, occupied with a last game of exploding snap in a compartment a few rows away.  She spits out her usual ”what do you want, Malfoy?” but it comes out wearier than expected. A last night at Hogwarts, the night before, means, at least in Gryffindor sense, partying. He smirks.

”Was just making sure we wouldn’t be going into the same business,” he says.

”Well, since it’s so important to you, I kind of half expected you’d bail out if it was the case.”

”I’ve know what I wanted to do forever.”

”Great.”

”I hope I won’t have to see you there this autumn, Wealsey.”

”No worries, I’m going into a muggle business,” she says, tired. She really can’t be bothered with him right now. He looks chocked for a moment before he pulls his face together again, crossing his arms over his chest. She mimics the gesture.

”Really?” It sounds almost sincere. It isn’t. She knows this guy by now. Seven years of it.

”We’ve taken muggle studies together for seven years, Malfoy,” she reminds him and he sneers.

”Thought you’d be up for something bigger and better, always the narcissist. Guess I was wrong,” he mocks, grimacing.

”Stop being an elitist jerk for one minute, would you?” she sighs and walks past him, deliberate shoving him into the wall, one last time for good measure.

”Bye to you to,” he shouts, obviously annoyed. Rose smirks triumphantly, she doesn’t turn around.

She goes into a small printing company in London after that, but quickly becomes restless. She illustrates a children’s book, but it reaches no greater success.  She gets her own place a bit outside the city. She goes back and forth between temporary contracts and never feels content. Harry offers her a bit of money to start her own company, but she declines. She saves up so she can take extra weeks of during the summers and travels muggle style in rented cars. Her parents summerhouse is an 8 hour ride away. They will be arriving any day now, spending their summer here as well. She doesn’t feel grown up, she doesn’t feel like their child either.

It’s a nice drawing. She might be at a loss of spark for the moment, but she knows she can draw. It doesn’t how good the light is, either. She finishes the picture and puts the sketchbook down. She hasn’t been able to just sketch for a while. Always working, never having much but the four walls of her apartment to draw. Hogwarts was good for that too, not that she had much time over between classes, quidditch practice and prefect duties, but she had dorm mates to draw. People who didn’t mind. She’s far too restless and far too self-conscious of other people watching over her shoulder out in parks, public transport. It’s harder than one would think to go unnoticed. She sighs. Kudos to this guy for being so lost in whatever he’s reading.

He stands up to go a short while later, brushing sand of his dark jeans. Rose snaps her head down over her sketchbook, doodling in a corner. She crosses her fingers and hopes he won’t talk to her. She’s quite far from where the road meets the beach so it hopefully she’s not in for a conversation. She does enjoy people, talking, whatever, but she’s been working all night (her current job: night shift at old people home. Awful.) and driving all day. She’s exhausted. She hears the guy stop a few meters away. She sneaks a glance at his feet, shifting from one to the other. What is the twat doing? Is he contemplating telling her a bird has taken a dump in her hair? She hopes the birds have been kind on her.

The guy gestures toward her open sketchbook and says, in a weird voice Rose never would identify with him, awkwardness.

”Have you been drawing me?” Her head snaps up, and she looks from Scorpius Malfoy to her sketchbook, in which the drawing of him on the jetty lies in plain sight. She closes her mouth, which has fallen open. Okay. Sure. This is fine. Avoid question.

”What on earth are you doing here?” she manages, as she slams her sketchbook shut. He raises his eyebrows and there’s the Malfoy she knows and hates.

”I’d ask you the same." She closes her eyes. Opens them again. Peers on him. She’s already feeling a headache creeping on. Better close the eyes again.

”You look like shit, Weasley.” She doesn’t see him saying this, but she can imagine the smirk. When she looks it has gone.

”Still so eloquent, are we,” she remarks, rolling her eyes.

”I can’t belive you still roll your eyes like that.” He sounds astoished.

”Old habits die hard.” She’s so tired. Three cheers for deep misfortune. Meeting you old school rival and wondering if it he was the reason for your motivation to do stuff in general. Not that it was. What’s wrong with her?

”So you live _here_?” she says disbelieving. He frowns. No didn’t think so. She could not imagine Malfoy at a place like this. On the other hand, she couldn’t imagine him in muggle jeans and knitted shirts either, oh how the world changes in the blink of an eye.

”No,"he grimaces. “My parents are borrowing a house in the village over the summer.”

”You’d want to consider scrapping that contract, mine have a house just up beyond the hill.” She points in the direction of the little red house. He obviously has no idea of where she means by ”the hill”. An awkward silence settles. She fiddles with her pencil. He’s still standing on a distance that has become weird for a conversation this long. He breaks the silence.

”You don’t happen to have any fire whiskey, do you?”

”Not with me. Already an alcoholic at the tender age of 28?” she smirks. Oh, she feels embarrassed and suddenly very young again.

”If we’re making assumptions: you’re having a mental breakdown over your tiring life at your parents summer resort, like the ideal freak show we’d always know you’d turn out to be?” She has to hold in a laugh at _summer resort_. How Malfoy of him. How refreshing to have someone being honest with her.

”Cheers to that,” she raises an air glass between them and fake drowns it. He purses his lips instead of going along with it. Evidently, she’s rusty at this old rival thing. That in itself _does_ sparks a glitch of anger. How long ago was it she was truly angry?

”I’m going to go home,” she says when he doesn’t reply.

”Yeah, same. You don’t know anywhere around here that they _do_ have fire whiskey?” he mutters.

”Other than the Weasley stash, no. And before you embarrass yourself further – the shop here doesn’t sell muggle alcohol, and don’t drink the stuff for cars." she says it in all seriousness. He doesn’t like feeling stupid. She knows this from experience. He scowls at her.

”Right.”

They walk the seemingly endless trail until the real, asphalt road begins. He’s going the same way. Turns out they live unnervingly close to each other, him only a few hundred meters more along the road. She stops her red house.

”Well, this is me," she says. He shifts his weight again, one foot to the other, hands in the jeans pockets.

”It’s awfully quiet for a Weasley lot," he notices.

”Don’t worry, they haven’t arrived yet. It’s my brother’s graduation. Hugo.”

”And you’re not there?"

”So do you want that fire whiskey or not?

Her mind is screaming. Oh no, oh no, oh no, you stupid, stupid creature. He will most likely decline, she convinces herself. Depending on how far gone he actually is. Maybe she can just thrust the bottle on him and he’ll leave. He raises his eyebrows.

”Right. Sure.” He sounds genuinely surprised. She turns away from him and sighs. Right. Sure.

He follows her inside, doesn’t, thank Merlin, comment on how nice it is. She doesn’t think she’d be able to handle that. It _is_ nice, though. Cosy, even. Sheer white curtains, old furniture from the people who lived here before them. A pump organ, a fireplace. She loves it here. She pulls out the fire whiskey from one of the high cupboards, embarrassed for having to use a chair to be able to reach but far too proud to ask him for help. It’s her whiskey after all. She puts it there for a reason.

It hits her how typical it is. No one but her ever bothered with Malfoy. Her cousins chose to ignore him, she can’t remember anyone but her ever standing up to his bullshit. And nothing has changed. Everything has changed but at the same time nothing. No one else in her unfortunate family has Malfoy interrupting their lives at most unfortunate and bad evenings. Not that this has happened before. Not that it wasn’t her who invited him in. They haven’t seen each other since graduation and that has evidently been a good thing.

”I saw you once, you know," he starts.

”In some bookshop. Bolted out when I saw you come round some bookshelf. I don’t think you saw me, hair’s in the way and all.” She can’t help rolling her eyes. And here’s to the hair jokes.

”Didn’t think you’d be in a muggle book shop?” she comments as she pours the whiskey into glasses made for drinking something else. She hand him his drink and he looks bothered.

”You don’t have to be ashamed about it,” she drawls. ”They have written some good stuff, those muggles. All literary needs can’t be solved with Hogwarts a history”

He furrows his brows deeper at the mention of Hogwarts. Probably not the best topic for keeping this light hearted.

”You don’t read much,” he comments out of the blue. She doesn’t. She raises an accusing eyebrow nonetheless.

”What are _you_ reading, then?” she says. She hasn’t been interested until now, but suddenly she remembers the book he’s holding under his arm. She tried to snatch it from him, he shies away.

He mutters something, throws his head back and downs his drink.

”Whatever,” she shrugs and mimics his action. He glares at her. She reaches over and grabs the book. This is far too easy. He burst out in an offended ”hey” and tries to reclaim his book, but she smoothly avoids his grip. Who knew those quidditch reflexes were still hanging around.

It’s Oscar Wilde. The portrait of Dorian Gray.

”I hate this one,” she sighs. Really, it isn’t solely to provoke. It _does_ has some strange themes. Can’t be good, especially for easily impressionable people. On the other hand she doesn’t think of Malfoy as very easily impressionable.

”You read it?” he seems surprised. Of course he does.

”No, I saw the movie.” That doesn’t annoying him, surprisingly.

”I don’t think I’ve ever seen a movie outside muggle studies.” Maybe she’s spent too much time working with book people.

She refills their glasses.

”I can’t believe I invited you into my house,” the smirk she knows flashes for a second.

”A moments bad judgement. I understand. I accepted, after all.”

”That’s just because I promised fire whiskey,” she says in a reassuring voice.

”Are you saying you lured me into your home, Wealsey?”

”I have all the reason to, don’t I?” she says. Anger again, but, again, only for a second. She’s tired. Or old, perhaps.

”What are we listening to?” he asks. In the background the radio is playing Pet Shop Boys. She must have forgotten to turn it off before she left for the beach. She loses herself in thought.

”Muggle stuff, I assume?” Malfoy says when she doesn’t answer. She nods absently.

”Why do you think it is, if a witch or wizard chooses muggle way of life, or like, you know, hang with muggles, they are viewed as failing or in crisis?”

”Talking out of experience here?” he sounds unnervingly unspiteful.

”Oh, shut up, Malfoy”

”Seriously though? Just the fact that we call them muggles, that they still not know about us, that we want it that way, is pretty inconvenient” She is surprised. Very surprised. Less so about what he’s saying, more so that _he_ is saying it _._

”You think we should tell them?” she asks curiously. He swallows. As if this would be a controversial opinion, as if any opinion except the ones his purebloodness comes with would be controversial in a Weasley home.

”Yeah.”

”Huh. Most would argue that’s a bad idea. Given what a minority we are and whatnot.” a spark of angerin _his_ eyes.

. An anger which she remembers surprisingly clearly.

”Do you still want to be seen as a failure for going to the movies?” he retorts.

”Nah. I want to be seen as a failure for having no further education and a shit job history,” she drawls back. It provokes him and she sees her job done. He stands up and half expects him to hex her, as if they were 14.

”I can’t stand your pessimism,” he grimaces, roaming the kitchen. Restless.

”And you’re a ray of sunshine blondie?” she almost laughs out loud. He turns away and smiles. He actually smiles like he can’t help it.

”I can totally see you smiling there,” she says almost breathless.

”See what I mean. Can’t even smile without offending you,” he turns to her. Smile faltering but still remaining present the corners of his mouth. He is mocking her, but kind of not mocking her. His roaming makes her uncomfortable. He makes her uncomfortable. What is he playing on anyways? Is he here solely to bother her? Of course he isn’t. Maybe if he _had_ hexed her she would think that. Maybe if they would have been 14. They aren’t, she reminds herself. He stands with his back turned to her now and flips the pages of something. Oh no. He turns to her triumphantly, holding the sketchbook out to her.

”You were drawing me!” he exclaims, voice low, a small smile of vicious victory gracing his lips.

“I didn’t realize it was you!” she growls, feeling her cheeks grow warm. This is awful. She doesn’t snatch the sketchbook from his hands so he pulls it back in his hand, resting it on one palm whilst lazily flipping the pages. No one ever sees her private drawings. Not that Malfoy would know this, of course. Not that she _really_ minds. People asked and she said no and it stuck and she doesn’t feel like showing them anyway.

“These are pretty good,” he mutters “you know, objectively.” Right. This is why she doesn’t show her stuff to people who won’t give her work.

“Objectively – always the Ravenclaw, are we?” she mutters back, crossing her arms over her stomach.

“I was in Slytherin. Not that I think you’d forget?” he remarks casually. Shifting his weight again. “I just meant that they are good, from an objective point of view. You’d probably think I’d have some weird ulterior motive if I said it any other way.” he adds, seemingly regretting it at the same rate as he says it.

“And now I’m meant to think that you don’t?” she smiles widely. Too wide. How long ago was it that she smiled like that, fake or not? Too long ago to be acceptable now.

“So you do art stuff?”

“I do my best."/p>

“Cool."

“What?"

 “Yes?” she sighs at that. Rolls her eyes at him.

“What do you do anyways? Ministry stuff?” she fiddles with her necklace, green drop formed pendant thingy. He scowls.

“Private healer business. Got certified last year.” How successful of him. Not expecting any less though, not really.

“Congrats”. Too measured, but she can’t bring herself to care, not when it comes to Malfoy. This is why she doesn’t want to go to Hugo’s graduation party. She sucks at this. Jealousy, perhaps? “You beat me in the herbology NEWTs, you know?” she continues.

“Of course I know.” He helps himself to another fire whiskey.

“You don’t want to have too much of that, it’s strong stuff.” She’s pretending he’s stupid again and he proceeds to crack his knuckles. Maybe he remembers that she hates it. Still.

“I can handle it,” he says, examining his hands.

“So I wasn’t too far of? Just remember you’ve got to have steady hands for those healing spells for another 30 years at least.

“Nah, I’m good. Family money waiting in Gringotts” his eyes glints, telling her he’s joking. They are doing what they’ve always done, but telling each other when they aren’t being serious. They definitely used to be serious before. She’d have known otherwise. She was, at least. She feels tame. They are being tame.

“So, who’re you with at the moment? Claire Zabini? Tying the knot anytime soon? Be sure to send be an invitation,” she rambles. Much better. The last line is hopefully sarcastic enough. She does not want to go to his wedding. He seems to get it.

“We broke up like a month after graduation, where have you been? Out here?” Pause. “No one right now, but mum plans to set me up with Vega Rosier," he says with half dread, half disgust in his voice. Rose does the math and feel her eyes widen.

“Aren’t you like, cousins or something?” she exclaims, outraged.

“Second cousins,” he says. Dark expression. Wait. His mouth twitches at the corners.

“I’m messing with you, Weasley.” He’s smiling again. Thank Merlin. Still. Embarrassing.

“And you expected me to get that?” He’s downright sniggering. It looks strange on him, sharp jaw and seemingly constantly furrowed eyebrows. He looks relaxed. That’s unfair.

 “You know, I could probably fish for some dirt real easy – there’s no way that hair is maintained without inbreeding,” she pouts, raising her eyebrows at the nonbleach blonde head in question. He nods solemnly.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t have to look long – I think my great grandparents, on dads side, of course, were brother and sister – big family secret and all,” he says and almost rolls his eyes. She catches him almost doing but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. He pours himself another drink.

Which explains stuff. She’s sitting in her parent’s kitchen with a _tipsy_ Scorpius Malfoy. She spends a while imagining her parents arriving here early and Hugo breaking the news in the hallway, only to find the two of them here two seconds later. It almost makes her giggle. Bless having Bill Wealey as your personal alcohol supplier. The French stuff is harder than the British. Most people aren’t used to it.

Idea. Evil master plan to seek amusement on someone else’s – Scorpius’s – behalf. Her favourite kind of amusement. And his too, she excuses herself mentally. He wouldn’t object, objectively.

“Do you want to play a game or something?” she asks as casual as possible. A look of dread fills his face. Non-filter drunk, apparently.

“Not truth or dare,” she snorts at him and he folds his arms over his chest.

“We’re, if you hadn’t noticed, only two people, so not really much fun.”

“Good. Great.”

“Chess maybe?”

“Sure.” He perks up now, straightening in his chair. She pulls herself up from her own and moves from the kitchen to the living room, where they keep the organ, the rocking chair, an abundance of magically never-rotting plants. Scorpius would be horrified, she thinks, pleased. Most importantly though: their set of chess. Muggle chess. The wizard set is far too precious to her father to be kept here all year and only being used in the summer. She doesn’t mind. She hopes that Scorpius will. He has followed her into the living room, drink in hand but still walking straight. She should put that bottle away before he becomes less amusing and more unbearable. She realizes that, even after seven years of parentless boarding schooling, she’s never seen him drunk before. Gryffindors and Slytherins didn’t party much together and he’d be too clever to ever drink from the always spiked yule ball punch. Wouldn’t want to make a fool of himself. The uptight bastard.

He’s standing, head bent down, nape exposed by the flowers. There’s a whole table of them by the window opening out to the garden, giving them light she supposes. The sky is pink by the horizon. It’s a nice picture, and she, objectively, gets the urge to pick up her sketchbook again. He turns to her with a frown.

“Are these magically preserved plants?”

“Yeah, I mean, I guess so. They’ve been here since last summer so I’d assume,” she shrugs, keeping her face at bay. A good poker face is an acquired skill best learned from years of games with heaps of cousins.

He looks personally offended. It’s glorious.

“So you want to play or not?” she waves at the shelf were the game is located. A silent “get it down, asshole”. It works. Praise the lord it works. He doesn’t even bat an eye as he walks out of the gloriously nice pink sunset light and pulls the chess down from the shelf. He’s probably a good 7 inches taller than her. He blows the dust from the battered box, also without batting an eye. She considers apologizing for the mess but decides against it. Merlin, _is_ she suddenly 14 again?

“What on earth is this?” he exclaims in – excuse her but – _sad distress_ , as she begins putting the players up by hand. She spends a good 15 minutes explaining the art of _moving them yourself – no, no crushing_ to a sullen, unwilling Malfoy, and flashbacks from being paired up in potions runs across her cerebral cortex.

After the initial chock of muggle culture, Malfoy, who wasn’t bad at all at potion after some coaxing, turns out to be a decent chess opponent, even when drunk, and that is actually saying something because Rose is taught by her father, whom have done some serious chess-playing in his days. Maybe she’s a bit drunk as well.

 She wins two times and loses once, after getting to cocky in their last game. Malfoy smirks his trademark sneer and chess mates her king ten minutes into the game. She sulks for a bit, calling him names she hasn’t used since school. He doesn’t let her get away with it, of course not, and it annoys her, but a weird sense of nostalgia fills her to the brim when he calls her hair “an eternal birds nest” for the thousand time in history and first time that evening.

Suddenly she feels her eyes get shiny and oh god not now. She blink, as if confused, she feels confused. She’d been drinking too much. Oh god, this morning she’d thought she’d reached her absolute low and now she’s here drinking and almost crying with Malfoy. Guess she was wrong, new lows where you least expect them, how delightful.

“Sore loser much, Weasley,” he swallows and his Adams apple bobbles.

“Always was,” she says weakly. Compose yourself, Weasley. She’s cried before him before, she realizes, angry frustration tears caused by him. Well, good on her. She doesn’t need more first tonight.

No tears fall from her eyes, because just when she’s about to give up and let them fill her eyes, spill over her cheeks Malfoy stands up, fixes his hair and says, entering the kitchen again, panic tinting his voice. Oh boys and their incapability when it comes to emotions.

“Draw me like one of your French girls, Rose.”

“What?” she manages to spit out, incredulous. He’s leaning against the doorframe, her sketchbook in hand, much like before.

“Oh, please tell me you weren’t sick when we watched Titanic,” he winces and Rose hears herself let out an out of place broken laugh. She decides to put him out of his misery.

“I’ve seen it,” she says, accepting the sketchbook, digging in the pocket of her cardigan for a pencil. Might as well. The sky isn’t pink anymore but dark blue, almost velvety. Thinking about it, it fits him much better.

“You actually want me to though?” she asks, still baffled.

“I relate a lot to that Rose, you know, being whisked away with my cousin and all,” he says, dead serious expression. She rolls her eyes.

“I bet you do.”

Its way past midnight and he’s very drunk by now but he somehow manages to look pristine nonetheless. Malfoy genes, she’s been told. Not to be fooled by.

She places him in front of the window, half sitting on the table among the flowers. The colours are divine, the crisp white of his button down against the deep green of the leaves and the blue of the sky. His eyes look darker than their actual light grey in the half light. It’s dark, but she could swear he’s blushing. Everyone does, though, being observed like this.

His shirtsleeves are neatly rolled up past his elbows, and she bets a galleon on that they came that way. Malfoy wouldn’t dream of doing it himself.

“What are you supposed to say now?” she chats mindlessly, setting herself up. “Something the last thing I need is another portrait looking like a porcelain doll? Right? Did you get your portrait painted a lot as a kid? I’d imagine you Malfoys doing stuff like that” she continues, mostly talking to herself.

“A few times. They insisted. Not much fun for me, being tiny and fidgety and all,” he mutters.

“Couldn’t imagine you being tiny and fidgety,” she smirks.

“Slytherin, but not a liar,” he shrugs, smirks back.

“Relax your face, no mocking,” she says in true Jack Dawson fashion, but he doesn’t seem to catch the reference. In fact, he pliantly obeys. Cool. His face is much more appealing when relaxed. His mouth loses the mean tint and his eyes opens up, as if he’s been staring into the sun and just put on his sunglasses.

He probably hasn’t been out in the sun much, though. He’s pale almost matching the shirt. Blue veins along bare forearms and finely wired hands. Fine work, really. Objectively. She needs to get out more. He’s remarkably easy to draw, it seems. The paper agrees with him, maybe because she doesn’t feel the need to impress him, maybe because she’s good at what she does. Maybe both.

An hour passes before she’s done and they chat casually. He refrains from mocking her, keeps still.

When she’s done, she blows away the excess lead and hands him the sketchbook. He straightens up again, stretching his limbs and neck from standing still so long. He looks for a few moments, then snaps his head up to meet her eyes.

“What am I supposed to say now?”

“Oh, I don’t know, “this is exquisite work Jack” is earlier,” she sighs, faking concern. Not as light hearted as she would like it to sound. His eyes, still soft, falls on the picture again, his thumb gracing the RW in the right down corner.

“It is exquisite work, Rose” he says, clear, if it wasn’t him she’d say it sound sombre.

“Well, it’s yours, so your free to wank to it whenever” she swallows. She mentally takes back what she thought about boys being emotionally inadequate. Girls are just as bad. He smirks at the drawing and pulls back to rip it out. Without thinking she pulls out to stop him.

“At least use a pair of scissors, Merlin,” she says, a firms grips around his wrist. Quidditch reflexes. He jumps as if electrified and things are awkward again.

“You can have it, the sketchbook I mean. It’s only two pictures of you and a few doodles anyways,” she rambles.

“You should sell it,” he clears his throat.

“No one would buy it,” she says, matter of factly.

He nods silently, doesn’t argue with her.

“I should be going,” he says, lingering after carefully closing the sketchbook. She mimics his silent nodding.

She follows him to the door, crossing her arms over her stomach. He turns in the door, waving the sketchbook.

“Thanks, really. Objectively,” she rolls her eyes and he flashes a half smile. And he’s gone, closing the door behind him.

She contemplates watching him walk along the country road through the kitchen window but resists. She cleans out their glasses and puts the fire whiskey on its shelf. Goes to bed.

When she wakes up its past noon and she can hear her parents ruffling in the kitchen from her bedroom on the second floor.

She drags a hand through her messy hair, auburn and curly but mostly just frizzy. She snails down the staircase to meet her family for the first time in a couple months.

Hugo is up and smiling brightly, he rises from his horrifyingly massive breakfast, attacking her in a bear hug when he sees her.

“Hey, congrats you graduate you,” she smiles, ruffling his hair in what she hopes is a appropriately affectionate gesture.

“Rosie!” her father exclaims, opening his arms. He’s wearing a frilly apron, standing with arms wide open.

She hugs him, hugs her mother and grabs a glass of orange juice. It’s bitter.

“How was your shift? When did you get here?” her mother asks. She looks part worried, part suspicious. Oh, she would. She lied about important work. Not being able to make it. Time to put on the acting skills. The finely worked on porker face, really, it’s to their credit she does so well.

“Oh, the usual, exhausting, awful, fulfilling. I think I came in around midnight.” Malfoy (oh right, Malfoy, she remembers. Not _that_ drunk, after all) might not be a liar, but she definitely is.

“You must have been totally out of it,” Hugo shouts from the living rooms rocking chair. He’s curled up in it, mouth full of half chewed apple pancake. A Ron Weasley speciality.

“She’s played chess with herself,” he declares to their parents, obliviously laughing. Her father laughs with him, her mother sends her a unimpressed, still doubtful look.

The summer proceeds without another trace of Malfoy and she almost forgets about their – encounter – until Hugo reminds her four weeks later. He’s standing in front of the mirror on her bedroom door (the only full figure one in the house, heavily occupied by her brother and his mess of a hair, he hasn’t realized that it’s a hopeless case yet, the poor sod).

“So what, did you have someone over here, the day of my graduation, I mean?” he asks casually. Maybe she shouldn’t be so self-absorbed. Maybe he has developed got the poker face too. They are siblings after all.

“What?” she answers too quickly.

“Who was it?”

“You don’t think I’d play chess with myself? You think to highly of me Hugo,” she says in what she hopes is a sarcastic tone. He sighs.

“Whatever. I’ll find out. For missing my quote mum special day, it must be a pretty special guy.” She almost feels bad for him. More so she feels bad for herself for being ashamed, for not wanting to go to her only brother’s graduation party. She’s a rather sad excuse for a sister.

What concerns Malfoy, she is practicing denial. She is not not bothered and they were drunk.

Their father comes home outraged one day, a few days after they’ve settled in, shouting that “the Malfoys, the Malfoys, Hermioneem>” are staying in the village for the summer. He proceeds to mutter about “the thousands of villages in Great Britain” whilst her mother gently caresses his back, big soothing circles.

The rest of the summer goes by without further trouble. The Malfoys keep to themselves. Her father forgets about them.


	2. Chapter 2

She feels relaxed, but also kind of empty. She hasn’t been drawing as much as she’d hoped to. She goes back to the printing company that autumn. She hates it more than she remembers. The routines are firmly set and she tries conforming after them, she really does. She tries drinking 6 to 8 glasses of water a day, tries to take the same three tube stops to work, tries to sort papers, reply to email, go home at five o’clock and not drink more than 6 to 8 glasses of not-water. Thank god for having a huge overbearing family during times like these. They send her letters and come to pick her up for family roasts and Rose can’t even be bothered to care that they can’t mask their concern, because she knows that they know now. They know she’s failing. They’re kind enough not to say anything, but more than once Hugo and Albus have had to come over, cleaning up her mess, tucking her into bed between sleeping pills she really can’t afford. Damn muggles for making her depend on something so expensive.

She sees Malfoy again around Christmas. He’s hunched over a drink in the Leaky Cauldron and even though she has just only mustered up the courage to enter a wizarding pub (so many people she potentially knows – fuck small communities) she turns in the door, figures he wants nothing to do with her. They’d embarrass themselves. She can’t handle that right now, she can’t handle anything but fire whiskey right now. She retreats back to her badly lit apartment and drowns half a bottle. Muggle wine, not the hard stuff. A Christmas gift from her boss. She hates her boss. She doesn’t bother taking off her make-up before slowly drifting off to sleep.

The next morning she wakes up from an almost rhythmical picking sound. She finds a huge pompous looking owl – thing – by her bedroom window. She hopes it isn’t from Albus. He likes ugly birds. And pretending like nothing’s wrong. A note without an envelope, hastily folded once, her name written in lazy cursive across it is tied to its leg. The owl pulls back – shit thing – when she tries untying the note from its leg and she has to distract it with ham before she gets the letter off it. It isn’t from Albus.

_Weasley,_

_I sold your drawing to some art dude (don’t worry – no less than you deserve) and he’s interested in more. I’ve included his contacts at the bottom, hope you know how to use a phone – Merlin knows I don’t._

_S. H. Malfoy_

Under that is a card taped, a name and an address and a phone number. “Manager of art”. Right. Scorpius Malfoy sold her drawing to a muggle art dealer like it was nothing. Like she’s been trying to do forever. Right. This sucks. She doesn’t need this. Why would he do that? Thank god he didn’t send her the money. It gets you thinking though. How much did he manage to press out of that poor guy? “No less than you deserve” –what on earth does that even mean? She could take it as sarcasm- oh sod it. Why is she pressing meta out of Malfoy? She considers replying, but after a while the owl gets bored and leaves. She’s left on her own again, one phone number richer.

She’s been painting London. Making quick sketches whilst out in the cold dirty snow landscape of east end and west minister, bringing them home and putting them on canvases. She likes it. The motives are boring but the people in them are exciting. She doesn’t remember their features exactly, so she takes her liberties with them. Playing around. It takes her mind of her job. And other stuff. Family, shame, guilt, the usual.

At the end of January she caves in and calls the number from Malfoys letter. The conversation goes something like:  
“Hello I’m very busy, what the fuck do you want?”

“Er, yeah, right. I’m Rose Weasley-“

“What? Who the hell are you?” Great. Great great great.

“I, er, I think you bought something of mine around Christmas, from my, er, friend?” The other end of the line is quite and for a moment Rose thinks he’s hung up on her.

“Oh! You’re _that_ Rose” mood swings galore. He sound exalted now. Good for her, she guesses.

“Blonde kid – kind of weird but sure dedicated boyfriend you’ve got there, must say, he insisted on me taking you on, wouldn’t have had to though, loved your stuff. Why didn’t you call earlier?” she weighs between _muggle saviour and Christmas birth giver Jesus of Nazareth he’s not my boyfriend_ and _stuff_.

“Work, er, been busy working, stressful season,” she manages. She feels out of breath. The guy asks what she does and she explains accompanied by horrific sounds of disgust from the other end of the line. He asks her to come to his office – bring some stuff. She’s overwhelmed, Albus helps her get her stuff there.

In March she opens her first exhibition. It’s mostly the paintings of London. Ben, her manager’s – she’s still not used to saying that, favourites, but also some pencil sketches, some of her stuff from school. The great hall features a canvas as tall as her and really it’s unfair to talk about it like Ben does. It’s a still life, not painted from her imagination like he claims. Not that she’d dream of explaining the floating candles.

She writes to Scorpius, invites him to the vernissage. He doesn’t show, and she’s grateful for it. Half of the stomach sickening nervousness is due to him – what would she say?

Ben nudged her in the side after shaking hands with some journalist.

“So where’s the boyfriend, would have thought I’d see him here?” She sighs.

“He’s not my boyfriend” Ben rises an eyebrow.

“Huh? On the market then? D’you reckon I’d have a chance with that? He’s hot. Just saying.” She rolls her eyes.

She gets a good review in Art Monthly. She starts taking her makeup off at night. Most importantly –she finally quits her job at the printing company. It gets her in a row with the boss, but she gets out in one piece, figures it will make a good story. Ben helps her get a job at a gallery.

When it comes to the beginning of June she realizes two things: 1. She won’t be able to take much time off this summer. Not much at all. A week now, a week in the middle of summer, and 2. She doesn’t really mind. She loves working with Ben. He’s comfortably easy going. Doesn’t ask weird questions, jokes around with her. The first week she spends catching up with her friends, her giant family. She’s been living under a rock, it seems. Victorie and Teddy are expecting their first child, James is getting married. She accepts the invitation to the wedding that autumn, promises to make room. Hugo pouts at her for not “making room” for his graduation. He’s joking but she still feels bad and tells the story of her quitting her job. He concludes that it was probably for the best she didn’t come. Wouldn’t want his only sister murdered in an office. She agrees but winces at her lie.

She spends week number two at her parents’ summer house, she doesn’t think she could go a summer without it. She arrives on a clear July evening and it immediately feels easier to breath. She doesn’t come alone this time. She travels with her family via the floo network and it’s good. It’s all remarkably good.

She walks to the beach every evening, sketching birds and sand castles and on the third evenings she’s suddenly not good anymore.

As if being flung back a year in time, a good year at that, Malfoy (or, she hopes for approximately two seconds, someone looking very much like him) is occupying her standard yellow bench. He sees her coming along the country gravel road this time, turns his head up as she enters the beach. She considers making a run for it but no. She’s a normally functioning adult now.

“Hey,” oh, she should have run. She feels lost for words, and hates it. She can’t think of a time when it has happened before. Not around him.

“You didn’t come to the vernissage,” suddenly she’s angry, and it comes out as accusing, ringing in her ears. He didn’t show up to the vernissage.

“Well, I figured it was just you being decent, I-“

“Objectively,” she interrupts him. He looks uncomfortable. Good. Might as well. He didn’t come to the vernissage. That pretty much set’s it. She knows exactly why it bothers her now.

“How much did you sell it for? Ben won’t tell me.” A frown.

“Well, then it’s none of your business.”

“It’s unfair.” Do her a favour and don’t pretend like you don’t know what she’s talking about. She can see in the way his eyes glint with rage that he knows.

“What? That I won’t tell you?” she rolls her eyes. He mimics her crossed arms. Stands up.

“Oh give it up already, Rose, it’s all about contacts, you know that. Of course it’s bloody not fair.”

“Five years of dead end jobs, trying real hard, you going about it like a fucking third grade spell. Of course it bothers me,” she says, frankly.

“So what? That _shouldn’t_ bother you? It worked out, didn’t it?” he’s almost laughing.

“Well it does bother me. I’m real uncomfortable here, not knowing what I owe you,” she almost laughs back.

“You don’t owe me anything, Weasley”

“Didn’t think Malfoys worked that way.” She’s retorted to riling him up about family. Shouldn’t have.

“I’m not my father!” He snaps almost automatically, as if he’s said it a thousand times before. He probably has.

“And you think I, of all people, wouldn’t get that,” she raises her voice, feeling tears well up in her eyes. It doesn’t really face her like this. Angry tears are very different from sad ones.

“Seemingly not,” He’s refusing to look at her, staring intently at the water. She feels incredibly inadequate.

“Do you feel like you’ve won now? Taking the higher road and all?” Her voice sounds too loud, shaky “finally beating me so I can’t do anything about it?”

“No – you’re being an asshole”

“Thought you said you didn’t do lies?”

“I didn’t set you up with Ben to set some school boy feeling of being inferior!”

“Then what? I don’t get it? You didn’t come to the show, you didn’t speak to me about it? Why did you do it then?” Her voice gives up on her.

“Because I could, okay, it wasn’t some well thought out masterplan! Oh, you think too highly of me, Wealey,” he mocks her. She swallows a croaking sob.

“You didn’t speak to me about it.” Silence. You didn’t thank me, more like it. She doesn’t plan on thanking him.

“We’re not really on the best of terms, are we?” She sighs, pulling her hair out if her face, up in a ponytail. The anger is dying away, and she feels like being re born someone new. He stares at her, looking puzzled. Mood swings are a thing that happen to adults too, kids. Just like pimples. It’s never really over. She should do a ted talk on stuff. Old school rivalry and growing up. She should grow up.

He looks at his feet.

“I was going to go for a swim, before you came. Get rid of some bad energy. Care to join?” She turn to him, feeling puzzled.

She snaps out of it.

They leave their clothes on the yellow bench and she feels strangely unembarrassed about being in her underwear. Too much emotional garbage to be able to handle more emotions, she supposes. He is painfully pale. She follows him out on the jetty, to the very end of it. Dives before him. It’s dreadfully cold and she curses though it, getting herself used to it. He’s quite, waiting ‘til she’s done.

They swim next to each other. Not caring about technique for once. Or she doesn’t. He probably does. He’s annoying like that. An unannounced competition nonetheless, and it feels good to get rid of the adrenalin. She hasn’t played quidditch against anyone but her cousins since seventh year, and it feels good to be able to beat someone wholeheartedly again. Not that she beats him officially. They don’t stop until they’re half way over the lake, and when they do they’re both out of breath. She can hear her heart beat in her ears. She remembers Lily catching the snitch in her last match against Slytherin, his last match as well. She reminds him, wicked uncontrolled grin. Endorphins from exercise. He sulks and reminds her that he scored a good ten goals on her keeping that same match. She pretends not to hear him. They swim back, lazily now. She complains loudly about it. He reaches the jetty first.

“Won,” he’s out of breath as he heaves himself up, muscles playing in his back, shoulders, arms.

“Did not,” she breaths back, scandalously. What a scandalously cheating person.

They sit side by side, she’s holding her knees, and he’s dangling his feet aimlessly in the dark water.

“It’s cold,” she complains. His skin prickles at her words, as if he hadn’t noticed until just then.

“Yeah.”

They get up, pulls their clothes on again. Her fingers feels that brand of cold where they become burning hot.

The end of her pony tail drips down her back, the water making her curls heavy. He looks ruffled, which is unheard of for him. He’s strangely colourful against the scenery. Alive, red cheeks and lips, ears, fingertips. She likes alive. She feels like kissing him, which is unheard of for _her_. She doesn’t think she’s thought the thought before. She thinks she’s felt the feeling. That doesn’t bother her nearly as much as it should. She shrugs.

“Can I kiss you?” her voice doesn’t sound croaky anymore. Clearer and stronger than anticipated. He stares at her. Flails his arms around for a bit. Rejection feels pretty unembarrassing as well.

“Yeah.”

So she does. She kisses him and she has to stand on her tiptoes, pulling on his the nape of his neck. His lips are cold but, as presumed, alive. He shivers. And then he warms up to her, pulls her closer. His cold hands pulls at her waist and _she_ shivers.

They break apart, suddenly breathless again after a kiss that can’t have lasted more than a few seconds.

“How can you be so warm?” he breaths breathlessly.

“I’m freezing to death,” she replies.

“Me too.”

“Yes you are,” she nods, confirming. His face lights up and for a moment he looks almost childish. In acted trust he leans towards her, peers at her.

“Did you just call me cool,” he smiles. She rolls her eyes.

“What are you? Twelve?”

“Your eyes could get stuck like that you know,” he raises an eyebrow.

“You _are_ an actual twelve year old,” she astonishes.

“You know, that puts you in a bit of a creepy light,” he drawls.

“Shut up,” he touches hip lips, thinking, seemingly unaware of himself.

They walk past the birches, past the incredibly long trail and out on the main road.

She wouldn’t mind holding his hands. She’s drawn them. She knows that they are a nice set of hands. Objectively. Or not. They reach a point where she could go home.

“So, you want to come over? It’s really only fair that you get to see my house too.”

“My parents won’t be here until tomorrow,” He literally looks like he’s going to wink at her. He better not.

“Oh dear,” she sighs, shoving him lightly in the side.

So they walk past her house and she doesn’t think her family is up but even if they were it would be utterly ridiculous hiding. She’s still secretly grateful for the tall hedge surrounding their garden.

He invites her into a house that’s too large for three people and white and has a very well kept lawn. Most of the interior is white as well and he drags her along the seemingly thousands of rooms, saying things she’s not really listening too. Restlessness.

“You’re not listening.”

“You’re being boring.”

He looks positively delighted at this statement.

He’s showing her what she figures is him room from the Oscar Wilde volume on the night stand. She wonders if it’s been there since last year. And then they’re kissing again. He’s not cold anymore. A pooling warm feeling sets in her stomach and quickly spreads through her body. He has one hand fisted in her hair, the other one on her waist, thumb circling her rib cage. She leans into the touch, deepens the kiss ever so slightly. He breaks the kiss and she hears herself making some sort of disgruntled noise. His lips are still unbelievably red, fuller close up than she’d have thought. Wide blown pupils, almost taking over the grayish blue, blueish gray. She can just imagine what she must look like, wet hair and blotchy face. Whatever she _does_ look like, he doesn’t seem to mind.

The bed is huge, just like the rest of the house, and made with cotton-silk sheets. It’s heavenly soft, and if the circumstances were different, she’d fall asleep as she hits the pillows. The circumstances are different. They’re downright making out now, he’s on top of her and she has her hands half way up his sweater. It’s itchy; she doesn’t understand how he wears it. It has to go. He doesn’t object and pulls it off with the thin t-shirt he’s wearing underneath it. He’s straddling her hips and she is leaning on her elbow, watching him. He’s lean but fit, has pale, smooth skin. She traces them along his arms, remembers drawing those arms. They roll over, and she’s kissing down his chest, extracting small moans as she gets rougher, leaving marks that will still be there in the morning. He’s hard against her leg between his, has been for a while. He’s constantly moving his hands, circling her back, jean clad hips. She’s still fully clothed but her shirt has ridden up, exposing her stomach. She drags herself up so that she’s on his lap, chest to chest. She pulls her shirt over her head, his fingertips ghosting along her sides, making her shiver. He proceeds to kiss her shoulder, neck, pulling at the straps of her still wet bra, teasing her. He gets the clasp open and she feels his warm breath on her shoulder. She pushes him down in the mattress, leaving an inch between their bodies. He kisses her and she gasps as their bodies collide again. He reaches up to cup a breast, fondles her nipple between his still paler than her fingers.

They’re fiddling with zippers, crawling out of their jeans, getting desperate now, she moves against him, only thin layers of cloth separating them now. He’s pulling out her hair of its pony tail. It’s mostly dry in, in a stage of untameable frizzy curliness. He grabs her face, kisses her deeply, groans at the back of his throat. She’s on her back and he’s fondling the edge of her underwear, gracing her lower stomach, her inner thighs. She feels like whimpering, holds on to the back of his neck as he slips under, long fingers teasing her. He knows she’s ready, she’s soaked though the cotton. He kisses her as he slips one finger in, gracing her clit with his thumb, she hitches her breath, waiting, he pulls the finger out, almost casually, inspects her. Pulls her knickers off. She’s already aching with the loss of touch when he’s back two seconds later, two fingers this time, moving slowly, kissing her lazily. She cannot be bothered with this, so she trails her nails down his arms, pulls them around so she’s on top again, pulling his hands to cup her breasts, swallowing at the loss of his fingers inside her. She rolls her hips over his crotch, extracting a low pitches groan, bends down to kiss him, pulling his white boxers down. He’s already dripping against his stomach, tip red and veins blue. He one handedly rifles his side table drawer, finally pulling out a condom. She rips it open, rolling it down over him. He twitches at the contact, swallows. She meets his eyes, feels herself licking her lips absentmindedly. She lowers herself down on him, his hand fling over her body. He swallows again, dark eyes following her every movement, she lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding as their pelvises meet. She leans forward to kiss him and is struck by how easy it feels with him, how natural. She pulls herself down till he hits her bottom. Again. His chest is heaving underneath her and he embraces her, pulls her around and they finally fuck. It’s rough and inpatient and he pulls a hand between them, massaging her clit, both of them breathing heavily. She feels the heat pool up inside her as he hits a good spot, and begging him not to stop also seems natural. She leaves red marks along his back as she comes, and she’s being too loud, but he’s watches her with hungry eyes, blonde hair ruffled and falling into his eyes and she reaches to kiss him and he gasps against her lips, groaning her name as he slams into her two, three times more, until she can feel him pulsating inside her with his face buried in the crook of her neck, against her hair, the muscles in his back flexing. They bask in the after sex glory for a while, he gets up to get rid of the condom, comes back and looks gorgeous, she considers herself being able to admit it if not to him, at least to herself.

He plunges back on the bed next to her, pulls her up to his side. He smells of sex and sweat and cotton and it’s lovely. He plays with her hair, twirling a curl around his fingers over and over. She watches his profile behind half lidded eyes, wishes she had her sketchbook so she could draw him. She drags her nails lightly against his pale chest, drawing tiny pink stars that fade as soon as she finishes them. She falls asleep like that; Scorpius Malfoys hands in her hair.

 

She wakes up to pouring rain smattering against the window, wraps herself tighter in her duvet. Wait. Not her duvet. Malfoy has left and she’s alone in the massive bed. She sighs. Might as well. She bundles herself up in a cocoon of blanket. She’s just about to fall back to sleep when a blonde, excuse her but, incredibly messy head shows in the doorway.

“The fire- electricity thing, oh you know, and _water_ is gone.” This is a muggle house, built by and for muggles, just as her own. She’s been living at muggle places for four years. She catches herself finding it endearing that he doesn’t know shit about these kinds of things. She sighs.

“I’ll google whom to call when I wake up. The water’s probably just turned off for the storm,” she mumbles, sinks deeper in the pile of blankets. He half throws his arms in the air, enters the room fully now.

“You are awake now, though.”

“Am totally not,” then he’s totally contradicting himself and sighs, throwing himself on the bed next to her, pulling at the duvet. She lets him in. He takes her hand.

“Do you want tea?” he asks

“I thought the water was gone?” she raises an eyebrow. He laughs.

“Wizard,” he says, leaning in to, seemingly, smell her hair. She can feel herself blush at the comment. Oh the joys of muggle life. Almost makes you forget who you are. He gets up (she doesn’t understand how he can do that, leave the warm nest of bed-ness) and rummages a bag, throws her something, asks how she takes her tea and is gone again.

It’s a navy blue t-shirt. The cotton is soft and worn, it smells like him. She puts it on.

He comes back with tea in large Malfoy crested cups. She rolls her eyes and he reveals that it’s the only kind of cups in the house. They lay sprawled on top of the covers, her head resting on his stomach, red fluff making it look like he’s been stabbed and is bleeding candy floss. His words. She feels relaxed for the first time in a long time.

She’s not going to be able to thank him yet, for the logistics of her current non gloominess. She will someday though, she decides. If not personally, at least objectively.


End file.
